Poems (Craik)/The Good of it

by Dinah Maria Craik

THE GOOD OF IT.

A Cynic's Song.

OME men strut proudly, all purple and gold, Hiding queer deeds 'neath a cloak of good fame; I creep along, braving hunger and cold,  To keep my heart stainless as well as my name;    So, so, where is the good of it?

Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words,  Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state: With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards,  "I love" means I love, and "I hate" means I hate,   But, but, where is the good of it?

Some have rich dainties and costly attire,  Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door: I crouch alone at my plain board and fire,  Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more.    Yet, yet, where is the good of it?

Some gather round them a phalanx of friends,  Scattering affection like coin in a crowd; I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends,  Where they 'll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud.    Still, still, where is the good of it?

Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go,  A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost:—I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw,  A life 'gainst an hour's sport. We played; and I—lost.    Ha, ha, such was the good of it!

MORAL: ADDED ON HIS DEATH-BED.

Turn the Past's mirror backward. Its shadows removed,  The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime: I have worked—I have felt—I have lived—I have loved,  And each was a step towards the goal I now climb:    Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it.